


Three Strands

by Findswoman



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alien character of unspecified race, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Hair, Naboo Culture and Customs (Star Wars), Oblique mention of canon characters, Oblique reference to Siege of Lasan, POV Multiple, Rapunzel Elements, Wigmakers, Wigs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 12:38:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20930357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findswoman/pseuds/Findswoman
Summary: A Naboo wigmaker, now living and working on an Outer Rim world, sees the heroine of her favorite childhood tale in every woman who comes to her shop. A somewhat experimental tale told in three main textual strands from three different viewpoints, each of which is distinguished by a different typeface (regular,bold,italic). Note that even though the story begins with a passage in bold, the “main” strand of the story (or the closest thing to it) is in regular text.





	Three Strands

**14412.5 Well, there is no doubt about it: I am stuck here on the strange, dingy little world they call Svivren until further notice. It has been a little over a week since that horrid officer’s shuttle landed me here; my first move, of course, was to deposit his repulsive, unconscious bulk in some faraway dark alley where he could not find me again. (Did he really think he could subdue me? We are not wispy and fragile like Human women, who are likely to snap in half as soon a gentle breeze blows…)  
  
It is odd to be so far away from the homeworld. Odd, and wrong. And yet: would it not be odd and wrong to be there again, now that those plasteel savages have ravaged it beyond recognition? Now that there is nothing and no one there? (Now that you, my dearest G., are forever gone…?)  
  
Somehow I have managed to find a room to rent: small, drafty, but comfortable, and reasonably quiet. It is in one of the quieter commercial streets, above a row of shops: a stationer, a wigmaker, a greengrocer, a seamstress. All well and good—though by now I have run through almost all the funds on the credit stick from the ruffian officer’s pocket. And if I keep it too long, it will certainly be traced to me… I will need to find some kind of gainful work, and that right soon.  
  
But one of the shops downstairs has given me an idea that I wish it had not. (Forgive me, my absent love!)**

* * *

Trishé Didita loved hair.  
  
She was a wigmaker in the main commercial district of Wrils, capital of the Outer Rim outpost of Svivren, precisely because she loved hair, precisely so she could be surrounded by it all the time.  
  
Her own hair—long, wavy, and golden, usually done up in some kind of pretty twists or buns or braids—had always been her favorite part of herself, and hair was her favorite part of other beings. She loved all colors of hair, from the staggering variety of earthen tones characteristic of Humans and near-Humans to the vibrant pinks, blues, and purples of the Theelins and Zeltrons. She loved all textures of hair: smooth, wavy, curly, thick, thin, and all lengths, long and short—though long was her favorite, of course. She felt sorry for species that didn’t have hair: “Those Twi’leks and Togrutas and Gungans don’t know what they’re missing!” she often would say to herself, either as she brushed out her own hair in the morning or arranged the wigs in her shop on their mannequins.  
  
Trishé was Naboo by birth, and her favorite story from her childhood was the traditional Naboo tale of the Lovely-Haired Raavané, whose astoundingly long braids formed a bridge across which her lover went every day to visit her on her secluded lake island.

* * *

_Many thousand years ago there lived a husband and wife. They had one young daughter, named Raavané, who had the most beautiful long, golden hair ever to shine in the light of the sun. It was almost as long as the Solleu River itself, and she wore it in two long, lovely braids. But the family was poor and barely able to feed themselves, and eventually they were forced to sell Raavané into indentured servitude to an old neighbor woman of theirs, named Gothé._   
  
_ As Raavané grew, she grew in beauty, and her hair grew. At last the old and wizened Gothé could barely contain herself for jealousy. One day she sent Raavané to a tiny island in the middle of Lake Nemdotta to gather kajaka root. But Gothé had secretly set the autopilot of the boat to return to the mainland after being idle for a quarter of an hour—and it did, stranding Raavané alone on the island. She could not swim back, for the lake was populated by predatory opees._   
  
_ The island became Raavané’s home, and each day, when Gothé came to check on her, she would stand at the edge of the lake and call “Raavané, Raavané, throw me over your golden hair!” And Raavané would throw her long, lovely braids across to the edge of the lake, and Gothé would walk across them to her._

* * *

Trishé had learned her trade from the best: her great aunt by marriage on her father’s side had been assistant head wigmaker first to Queen Neeyutnee and then to Queen Apailana. After going into business on her own at the age of twenty, Trishé had opened a boutique in the central district of Keren, just down from Club Deeja. She worked there for many years, and her wares had been popular with the society ladies from Keren’s sizable Alderaanian community.  
  
Of course, that was before the Empire—COMPNOR, specifically—had decided to shut her down. For the silliest of reasons, too: for stocking “unnaturally” colored wigs that resembled the hair of “inferior” species. That saddened Trishé, because she really and truly did like hair of all colors, and just sticking with Human and near-Human earth tones seemed… well, _boring_ to her. So just last year, after some consideration and a few searches of HoloNet commercial real estate sites, she had found some eligible shop space in Wrils—an Outer Rim city she’d never heard of before, but it looked all right and would probably do—and had moved there to set up shop. No one there minded hair in colors like pink and blue and orange. (Indeed, those were the colors most requested by the dancers from the cantina down the street, who were some of her best customers.)  
  
Indeed, Trishé wasn’t quite sure exactly what the Empire had gotten its microgarments in a twist about to begin with. It was not as though most of the hair she worked with was actually _made_ from the hair of those species. Yes, occasionally someone would come by with a braid or a handful of equustails or something to sell her, but that was happening less and less often as finer and more lifelike synthetic materials became available. Technology had sure come a long way since Great Aunt Rahatta first started in the business!  
  
So Trishé now plied her trade happily in Wrils, and each woman who stopped into her shop (and they usually were women) was a Raavané to her.

* * *

_One day, Raavané was singing to herself as she twined her hair into its long, lovely braids in the morning. Now it happened that just at this time a young nobleman named Sond was riding along the shores of Lake Nemdotta on his faithful gualama. He heard the sounds of sweet singing wafting toward him from the tiny island and was immediately entranced, and he desired with all his heart to get across to the source of those lovely sounds. But he had no boat or other vehicle with him—only his steed. So he decided to wait and see what opportunity might present itself.  
  
Now just at that moment, Gothé came to the lake’s edge for her daily visit to Raavané. “Raavané, Raavané, throw me over your golden hair!” she called out. Immediately the maiden threw her long, lovely braids across the blue expanse of the lake so that one of the loops caught on a tree branch, and Gothé walked across them to the island. Then Raavané gently but firmly pulled her braids free of the tree and swooped them back toward her, just as the shaak herders throw their silken lassos.  
  
“Aha!” Sond thought to himself as he watched. “So this is how to gain the island of the beautiful singing!” So later that day, at eventide, he came riding back to the edge of Lake Nemdotta, tied his gualama to a tree, and called out over the water: “Raavané, Raavané, throw me over your golden hair!” And just as before, the golden braids came swooping over the water, and Sond walked across them to the island where Raavané dwelt.  
  
Now Raavané had never seen a man before, so she was quite startled to see Sond and not Gothé jump down from the bridge of braids. But the young nobleman spoke to her gently and assuaged her fears; and as they spoke the gleam of joy returned to her eyes, for she was lonely on her tiny island._   
  
_And every day, at the same time, Sond would ride back to the lakeshore and call out: “Raavané, Raavané, throw me over your golden hair!” And every day, she would throw her lovely, long hair across to him, and he would come and join her._   
  
_And each time, their words blossomed into kisses, their kisses into embraces, their embraces into love._

* * *

**14413.7 I found a nice, sharp pair of shears in one of the kitchen drawers. They should do the trick. May the Ashla guide my hands! G., my hotheaded love, would you be angry with me for what I am about to do?**

* * *

  
One day a woman entered Trishé’s shop.  
  
At least she thought it was a woman; the being’s figure was disguised by long, draped cloaks and robes. She was so heavily hooded that nothing could be seen of her face except for the glint of two emerald eyes. And she was very tall, towering over the petite wigmaker by at least half a meter.  
  
“Greetings! May I help you?” Trishé asked the newcomer in her best saleslady voice.  
  
“Yes. Are you able to take these?”  
  
She laid two braids on the counter. They were long, thick, glossy, and a strange sort of purplish black color that Trishé had seen only rarely before. Definitely not Human, Theelin, Zeltron, or any of the usual species…  
  
As she turned over the braids in her hands, giving them the usual check for body, gloss, and overall health, Trishé caught a glimpse of the woman’s hand. It was light grayish-purple in color and had four strangely shaped fingers with small claws.  
  
Was there anything of Raavané in this strange newcomer? Trishé was not sure.

* * *

_Now, unbeknownst to the wicked Gothé, Raavané and Sond had come up with a plan to free Raavané from her island so that she could return with Sond and become his wife. On each of his evening visits, Sond would bring Raavané a small plank of wood, and Raavané would fasten them together into a raft. When Gothé came to visit her, she would hide the raft under the straw pallet that she used for a bed._   
  
_ One day Gothé made one of her usual visits to Raavané and asked her how she fared. “Not well, Mother Gothé,” she said. “I have been feeling ill in the mornings, and I think my dress is getting tighter.” Gothé was alarmed at these words, and when she examined Raavané more closely, her suspicions were confirmed. “Oho!” she exclaimed. “Why, you loose, wicked girl! What base trickery is this?!” And in her anger she took Raavané’s beautiful braids in one hand, a sharp shears in the other, and cut them off—snip, snap!_   
  
_And with a magical blast, she cast Raavané far away into the cold heights of the Gallo Mountains to fend for herself._

* * *

“Sure,” Trishé said at last. “I can use these. I can give you…” She punched some numbers into her old-fashioned cash register. “…4500 credits.”  
  
“That is fine. Thank you very much.”  
  
Trishé pressed another control on the cash register. A credit stick rolled out into its till. She handed it to the hooded, emerald-eyed stranger, who nodded in thanks and left the shop.  
  
Smiling to herself, Trishé took the two purple-black braids to her temperature-controlled storeroom at the back of the shop, tagged them, logged them, and hung them up. She already had a few ideas about what she would do with these interesting and unusual specimens. There was enough in them for at least two wigs, possibly three: perhaps one with a vintage Naboo updo, another as Dathomiri ceremonial braids? And then maybe Hapan ringlets with the leftovers?  
  
The possibilities were endless.

* * *

_That evening, when Sond came to the lakeshore to visit Raavané, the wicked Gothé had tied Raavané’s braids to one of the trees on the island, and when he called out “Raavané, Raavané, throw me over your golden hair!” she threw them across to him, and he walked over them as usual. But when he reached the other side, whom should he find but the wrinkled old Gothé there instead of his pretty young Raavané! “Aha!” shouted the witch. “I’ve caught you now, you villain! You’ll never see your pretty lady again!”_   
  
_ In despair Sond threw himself into the lake, and thrashed and flailed in the water. The opees snapped at his eyes until they were scratched and clouded, and he could see no more. At last, waterlogged and weary, he dragged himself back to the shore, and spent his days roaming aimlessly through the forests, eating roots and leaves and wild berries._

* * *

That evening, after closing up shop, Trishé headed to the Arts District on Wrils’s south side to meet her boyfriend for dinner and a show. His name was Darvin, also originally from Naboo; he had studied xenobiology at the University of Sanbra and was now working as a lab technician at the biotech company just outside town. Tonight they would dine at their favorite Coreworld-fusion bistro, then head to Vintage Holo Night at the Ialtro to see _Filaments: The Corellian Tribal Love-Pronk Musical._  
  
Trishé considered it a match made by the Celestials, for Darvin loved hair too. Though mostly clean-shaven, he had dark brown hair a little over shoulder-length, which he often wore in a small bun. The xenobiologist in him was always fascinated to hear about the variety of hair colors and textures to be found his girlfriend’s shop and about the many different races and species who came to her, and she couldn’t wait to tell him all about her latest Raavané.  
  
“…and it was, like, super glossy and really, really dark _purple!_” Trishé was saying to Darvin as they sat waiting for their appetizers. “And I saw her hand, and it was, like, _purple!_ And I thought to myself, maybe she’s like a really, really tall Omwati?… Yeah, so anyway, I wasn’t sure.”  
  
Darvin sipped thoughtfully at the amber-colored cocktail in his glass. “Did you see her feet?”  
  
“No, of course I didn’t see her _feet!_ Why would I be looking at her _feet?!_”  
  
“Mmm...” Darvin paused in thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Just wondered. Anyway, how many wigs do you think these’ll make?”  
  
“Like maybe… three?”  
  
“Okay, so you know, Leeza at work?”  
  
“The one who’s dating that supply master fellow at the Imperial garrison?”  
  
“Yep, her. She said the garrison is having its Fête Week masquerade ball next month. If you can get those wigs done in time…”  
  
Trishé gasped and jumped, causing a little of her own pink-colored cocktail to slosh out of the glass. “OHMISTARS, REALLY?! Oh, Darvin! If they go for these… then maybe we can finally afford that Vagran vacation!”  
  
“I like the way you think,” Darvin winked, raising his glass. Trishé winked back, and they touched glasses.  
  
At that moment the waiter droid brought the appetizers, and the two of them paused to nibble on small, green meat-stuffed dumplings.

* * *

_After some years, Sond’s blind wanderings brought him to the part of the Gallo Mountains where Raavané dwelt in misery with the twin children she had borne, a boy and a girl. One evening he heard from afar the sound of her singing them to sleep. It sounded familiar, just like what he had heard so many years ago from that island in the middle of Lake Nemdotta._   
  
_ He ran as quickly as he could over the rocky crags toward the sound. Raavané saw him and ran toward him, and threw her arms around him, weeping with joy to see him again._   
  
_ And her tears fell into his eyes and washed away the scratches and the shards of the opees’ teeth, and he could see again._

* * *

  
Trishé did indeed finish the three purple-black wigs in time for the Imperial garrison’s Fête Week masquerade ball. They were just as she had planned: one in a vintage Naboo style, one featuring Dathomiri ceremonial braids, and one full of lushly cascading ringlets in the Hapan style.  
  
The garrison commander’s wife bought the Naboo-style wig for 15,000, and the very fashionable moff of a nearby sector, visiting for a routine inspection, paid 18,500 for the Hapan ringlets. (“It’ll be just the thing with my green Deyor gown!” she exclaimed.)

* * *

_And Sond led Raavané and their children back to his villa in the Lake Country, where they all lived in happiness and tranquility ever after._

* * *

**14416.2 It’s done. My head feels strangely light now. And I have 4500 more credits than I did before. That is something, at least, until the agency decides to come through with something (but I am not holding my breath about that). I have a credit stick of my own now; the old one lies in tiny shreds at the bottom of this city’s trash compaction system. Should I feel relieved, contented, at peace?  
  
I ask because I do not.  
  
I still hear the _snick_ of the shears carrying out their inexorable duty. Not just my hair has been cut: have not the blades of the Ashla sliced me loose from all I have ever loved and lived for? Without homeworld and kin, aren’t I too nothing but a dead bundle of filaments and wisps, to be bought and sold and perhaps remade? _Ai rrhu’karabast’aka,_ what has become of me, what _will _become of me?!  
  
But even now, on the floor of my cold room, your worn, dog-eared holoimage lies before me: you, my warrior, in all your military glory, hefting the ancient weapon of honor. And my tears fall, hot and caustic, on the image of your eyes.**  


_the end_


End file.
